"This," Stewart said, sweeping his hand along the curved forest of red symbols, "is our problem. We have to get here." His forefinger came down on a patch of sea a few miles east of Jazireh-ye Qeys. "Waypoint Bravo, where we're supposed to pick up the ASDS later this morning. The Iranians have this whole stretch of coast — and especially Charak Bay, here — covered with active sonar. There's no way we can sneak in there without being spotted."
"What is it you want me to do? I can't pick them up."
"No, but you can clear the way for us a bit. We can put that speed of yours to good use. This contact— Sierra Three-six-one — and this one — Sierra Three-seven-three — are, we believe, Iranian submarines put there specifically to run us down once we're spotted. These here are probably sonobuoys. This one in close to the beach, we think, is an Iranian ASW patrol boat. I'm wondering if it's possible for you to zigzag in ahead of the Ohio. Make a lot of noise… over here, say… and then get the hell out before they get too close. They're expecting an ex-boomer with a top speed of twenty-five knots, not an underwater speedboat going at a hundred. I'm thinking, when they hear you on their passive receivers, they're going to try to close with you. If you pull them out of position, we can exploit the holes they leave in their defensive perimeter, slip in, and grab our
SEALs. What do you think?"
"My God," Hawking said. "That's beautiful! Yeah, I can do that. One problem, though… "
"Yes?"
"There's going to be a lot of active sonar banging away in here, even after their ships and subs move. They'll still see you, no matter what I do."
"Probably. We're counting on the fact that when they hear you and that wonder sub of yours, they're going to be so confused they won't be coordinating real well."
"I see."
"There is a risk," Stewart went on. "If I was their fleet admiral, I'd hold some assets back, maybe in the lee of one of these islands here, active sonar off, or ASW aircraft, but patched in on this sonobuoy line, as a second line of defense. Let the noisy ones go chasing shadows. They're still in place, locked and loaded, if the shadows turn out to be a decoy."
Hawking grinned. "I doubt you have to worry about that, Captain. These boys don't seem to be all that bright."
"Mister, if there's anything I've learned as a sub driver, it's to not underestimate the enemy. We damned near got nailed yesterday afternoon by a Sukhoi and a Kilo working in tandem. You assume the other guy is at least as smart as you are and plan accordingly. If you don't, your loved ones are going to be getting a very unhappy telegram in the near future. You read me?"
"Yes, Captain. Loud and clear."
"Good. How long before you can launch?"
"By the book, prelaunch is a couple of hours. But I can give you a special deal."
"How special?"
"One hour from when you give the word."
"You've got it. And now… the specifics… "
They began making detailed plans, seeking to anticipate each possible contingency.
But anticipating every possible problem, Stewart thought, was impossible. War, by its nature, was so chaotic, there was no way to foresee every detail.
But they had to try.
Lieutenant Commander Hawking kept his speed down to about thirty knots as he pulled away from the Ohio. He didn't want to make so much racket in Ohio's immediate vicinity that he attracted the attention of Iranian sonar operators to the American vessel. That wouldn't do at all.
But once he was a mile away, he began easing the throttle open, accelerating through black water at sixty knots… then seventy. Punching a hole through the water at that speed made noise, a lot of it, no matter how streamlined the vessel. There could be no doubt that the Iranians were hearing him… and probably scratching their heads as they wondered just what the hell he was.
The water around him was completely black, a light-less void surrendering no information. He had to rely on the Manta's on-board sonar… but there was a problem with that, too. As with larger submarines, when the fighter sub was moving at speeds much above twelve knots or so, passive sonar was largely useless. The rush of water past the hydrophones drowned out every other sound in the vicinity.
His Manta's hydrophones were picking up the loudest of the active sonar pings, however. Sierra Three-seven-three was chirping away madly at a bearing of three-zero-one degrees.
Accelerating, he eased his control stick over and headed toward the Iranian sub.
The eastern sky, beyond the low, rocky hills, was showing the first faint, faint trace of a promise of dawn as the SEALs splashed wearily down the stream flowing into the Gulf close by the village of Bandar-e Charak. There were no lights on in the town, but Tangretti could see the running lights of a small ship — a patrol boat, possibly — on the south horizon.
Their exfil so far had gone without incident. Twice during the withdrawal — once up in the Kuh-e Gab, and again on the desert plain between Bandar-e Charak and the main Pasdaran base — they'd gone to ground to wait out Iranian patrols sweeping through the night. Neither enemy group appeared to be equipped with NVGs, which gave the SEALs a tremendous advantage. They remained motionless and silent as the patrols passed… once within a scant four feet of Tangretti's position.
The SEALs clambered out of the muck and across the low sand spit that had built up along the mouth of the stream where it entered the sea. A careful check showed the beach empty, so they began moving east along the spit, making for a clump of low, scraggly date palms that marked the hiding place of their CRRCs.
They found them, apparently undiscovered and undisturbed. As Avery and Hutch began pulling them out of their hide, the other SEALs took up perimeter defense positions, watching the surrounding night. Mayhew squatted on top of the sand dune, looking out to sea.
"Sierra Delta, this is Delta One. Sierra Delta, Delta One. Do you copy, over?"
"Delta One, this is Sierra Delta," Taggart's welcome voice responded in their headsets. "I read you."
Tangretti was startled by the quickness of the response. Taggart was supposed to be waiting with his radio mast above water, listening for the Team's arrival on the beach, but the presence of Iranian forces could easily have driven him back into deeper water. Had that been the case, he would have moved back to the surface every half hour.
Evidently, Taggart had decided not to let a little thing like an Iranian patrol boat keep him underwater.
"Sierra Delta, we're on the beach and moving to pickup. Three-zero mikes. Over."
"Copy that, Delta One. Three-zero minutes. We'll be there."
Hobarth and Wilson held their position as rear security element while the two rubber ducks were manhandled into the water. The other SEALs helped drag them off the shelf, then held them against the lap of the waves as the last two SEALs splashed off the beach and clambered aboard. The electric outboards were fired up, and the two SEAL CRRCs began quietly moving out to sea.
Tangretti gave the beach a last worried scrutiny. Things had gone so well, he more than half expected to see a Pasdaran patrol trotting across the sand spit after them.